


silence

by justjoy



Series: stories of baker street: fills from the sherlock bbc kink meme [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, Muteness, Post Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-20 07:09:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/582660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justjoy/pseuds/justjoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He nods at Angelo with a smile when the latter comes to greet them, customary candle in hand; John has long since given up protesting at all against it, and it's an admittedly nice gesture on Angelo's part. Besides, he's not going to complain. Not when Sherlock earns glares and curious looks if they go anywhere else, from people who'd read and believed the news that had sensationalised the entire incident mercilessly.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>So they end up back at Angelo's, even though they just ate there the day before yesterday.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	silence

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-Reichenbach, after Sherlock returns.

"Oh, for the love of - _who_ let the freak back in here?"  
  
Everyone in the room freezes - Sherlock, John, Greg, the few other officers and crime scene techs within earshot. Even Sally Donovan's movements stutter to a halt as Anderson's voice cuts clear across the noise of the crime scene.  
  
There is a loud clang as Anderson sets down his forensics kit, glaring pointedly at Sherlock. "He's a mute and a fraud! Why is he messing with my crime scene - "  
  
" _Anderson!_ "  
  
The sharp reprimand from the usually friendly DI shocks most of those in hearing range, although John isn't really surprised, not really, and neither is Sherlock by the looks of it. "Sherlock was personally cleared by the Comissioner himself _and you know it._ Now shut up and get to work!"  
  
Anderson's scowl deepens. "But sir - "  
  
"Greg?" John cuts the livid DI off before he can speak. He shakes his head sharply as the inspector turns towards him, his expression shifting to one of concern.  
  
John had been watching Sherlock the whole time. He'd been the first to recover after Anderson's sudden intrusion, continuing his examination of the body as if nothing had happened - not a surprise, he  _was_ Sherlock after all. But even John can see that the detective's motions have slowed, turning almost cold, mechanical.  
  
"Sherlock?" John tries his best not to let his own worry show as he kneels down opposite the detective with careful movements, grateful that his limp has vanished again. The last thing he needed right now was a cane to hinder him.  
  
When Sherlock's gaze flickers up to catch his own, John tilts his head, very slightly, towards the door, a unspoken question in his eyes.  
  
Sherlock hesitates for a split second, conflict clear in his expression if you knew where to look - and John certainly did - before the pocket magnifier closes with a soft snick, and he nods.  
  
They stand, John brushing off the dust on his knees, Sherlock scribbling something down quickly in a notebook. "We'll text you later for any developments, okay?" John murmurs as he passes the shocked Lestrade. Quick as a flash, Sherlock slips the piece of paper into Lestrade's hand, unnoticed by anyone else.  
  
Sally beats them to the gate, and already has a cab waiting for them by the time John's done taking off the blue smock that Sherlock still refuses to wear at crime scenes.  
  
She has been oddly helpful since Sherlock - John's brain stutters over the recollection - since _that_ happened. John had watched her out the corner of his eye when Greg pulled her aside the first time Sherlock and John had come to a scene. Sally listened without comment to his quiet explanation, her expression a mix of guilt and perhaps understanding.  
  
John murmurs a quick thanks to her for hailing the cab, and slips into the backseat beside his silent friend.

* * *

They're back at Angelo's. The loud, hearty Italian knows them too well to ask questions, and never asks Sherlock what he wants to have either. Whether this is out of long acquaintance with Sherlock's eating habits, or just mere politeness, John doesn't know - he _is_ endlessly grateful for it though, since it means that he won't need to explain anything at all.  
  
He nods at Angelo with a smile when the latter comes to greet them, customary candle in hand; John has long since given up protesting at all against it, and it's an admittedly nice gesture on Angelo's part. Besides, he's not going to complain. Not when Sherlock earns glares and curious looks if they go anywhere else, from people who'd read and believed the news that had sensationalised the entire incident mercilessly.  
  
So they end up back at Angelo's, even though they just ate there the day before yesterday.  
  
Silence settles between them - that's becoming a comfortable habit too, like the flickering light of fire that dances on the table - until John breaks it.  
  
"You know, when you said that you might not talk for days on end, I certainly wasn't expecting this." John cracked a small grin, gesturing at themselves. "Weren't kidding, were you?"  
  
Sherlock's gaze, ever attentive, snaps to John's face the moment he starts speaking. There's a startling moment of indecision on his face, before it breaks into a small, uncertain smile.  
  
Thankfully, John has passed the stage where he feels the need to blurt out whatever happens to be at the forefront of his mind just to fill the silence. He's learned - is still learning, sometimes - to take this in stride, just another part of Sherlock that was different, though God knows that the detective was quirky and eccentric enough to start with. It still surprises him at times, not hearing Sherlock's low mutter as he whirls around a crime scene, or dealing out acerbic insults at anyone within earshot, but he's getting used to it. Gradually.  
  
After all, nothing could be more of a shock than seeing the detective himself on the doorstep of 221B all those months ago.  
  
They sit in silence for a while longer before their food arrives, and John tucks in eagerly. Nothing much had been done today - interviewing suspects and witnesses alike had long since been passed to Greg for the most part, something John was grateful about for a wide range of reasons. Sherlock's condition notwithstanding, it was still too difficult, especially since John was quickly becoming as well-known as Sherlock himself now thanks to tabloids and John's own publishing works.  
  
"But I will find out." John remarks almost suddenly, with an undercurrent of steely determination that only a soldier could possess. "What happened. Why - "  
  
Sherlock gives him a dry, eloquent stare, one eyebrow raised a fraction of an inch, before stabbing another piece of ravioli from his plate with slightly more force than necessary - the nonverbal equivalent of a sarcastic comment, as far as John had surmised.  
  
It is a long point of contention between them. John is convinced that  _something_ must have happened during the three long years of Sherlock's absence to cause this, but Sherlock himself clearly isn't about to share, and even the usually omniscient Mycroft Holmes doesn't know either. In fact, the detective has been insistently tight-lipped - literally and figuratively - about the whole scenario. He won't even say whether he's really unable to speak or just refuses to.  
  
In fact, John thinks it's a good sign that Sherlock actually reacts to the joke, insignificant as it seemed.  
  
There's a small clink of china as Sherlock sets his fork down. John figures that he's going to text Lestrade something new about the case, until he realises that he doesn't hear the sound of clicking keys at all. He slants a glance at Sherlock, not knowing what to expect... and blinks in surprise.  
  
Sherlock's phone lies beside him, completely ignored. Instead, his right hand is held in a tight fist, moving in a slow circle two inches from his chest. He does this twice, then drops his hand back to his side, resting on the table.  
  
The man himself stares out of the window, his face an impassive mask.  
  
John rifles through the content of his mind quickly - as with most other doctors, he has picked up some sign language over the years as a necessity when dealing with hearing-disabled patients. He happens upon the meaning of the gesture, and feels tears prick at his eyes, unbidden.  
  
Without quite realising what he is doing, John lays his own hand over Sherlock's, rough palm covering the smooth, slender fingers. "You have nothing at all to be sorry for, Sherlock," and he means it, even as his almost vehement tone causes the detective to turn back to him with a mild look of surprise.  
  
John holds his gaze earnestly, willing him to see the truth as he has many times before. "Really, Sherlock. It's fine. It's _all_ fine."  
  
Sherlock hesitates, then smiles.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted as a fill to [this prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=92154902#t92154902) on the LiveJournal meme:
> 
> "When Sherlock returns after faking his death, he doesn't speak. He only communicates through texts or paper. When he's asked if he's unable to speak or just refuses to, Sherlock never answers that question. John wonders whether he's hiding something or he went through something traumatic. He won't rest until he knows."


End file.
